


knowledge determines destiny

by Nadler



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2015-2016 NHL Season, Alternate Universe, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 13:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11875734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadler/pseuds/Nadler
Summary: For Antti, if he wants something hard enough, it will happen.When he's ten years old, he is a goalie. When he is also nine and seven and five, he is a goalie, but only in his mind and on a kid’s team where nothing matters more than staying on your skates. He’s never thought about doing anything else. He listens to his team’s goalie coach intently, always trying to figure out what he means for Antti to do.Antti can’t think of anything he wants more than to be a goalie, to keep playing hockey.There’s a number in the envelope that tells him that life’s his, if he wants it bad enough.





	knowledge determines destiny

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, there is this little indie movie called Frequencies. Or OXV: the Manual, depending on the market. It’s a great little film. Basically, everyone has a frequency that they resonate at. Everyone. The higher the frequency, the lower the empathy. The higher the frequency, the luckier you are. An exceptional case is a negative. Over a hundred is extraordinary.
> 
> I love it to pieces. Here is an AU.
> 
> I don't even know if it makes sense without the movie, but here it is.
> 
> Or I guess, discovering a feeling

Antti has always had a higher than average baseline; it’s not something that changes. The number tells him more _why_ than anything else. It's not so much that everything falls into his lap, but he's always had the certainty that if he tries hard enough about it, it'll happen. 

He doesn't give up, and it pays. He can have anything, if he tries hard enough.

Usually, that's a platitude that everyone tells their kids, before they learn that the universe and nature itself likes some people more than others, that some people resonate more in tune with the world around them. Some people don’t even have to ask-to think about what they want is to get it. That’s the way it is; some people will never be on time in their lives, no matter how hard they try, but they can come close. Others never get a speeding ticket. Others will always, always, find the best seat in the house. 

They take the test at school; it takes longer for some than others to settle into their frequency, but everyone's done settling by nine or ten, or very close to it. There are people who will measure frequency earlier, but there's really no point, not when it doesn't matter. It doesn't change. 

In the grand scheme of things, Antti's told, things even out. You shouldn't worry about frequency all that much; most people are normal—they live normal lives. There are doctors and specialists and menacing charts for the people who can't lead those lives, mostly because of low frequency; people don't correct for high ones. Why would anyone want to correct being the luckiest, Antti doesn't know. 

(Mozart plays in Kari Lehtonen's nursery.)

 

* * *

 

It’s an honor to even be chosen for the Olympics, even if he isn’t going to see a second of ice-time. And, even if it’s the Olympics in Russia. 

Even if Tuukka Rask gets his own room. 

“We know who’s starting, then,” Antti says, almost conversationally. His roommate might not even be paying attention to him, but he’s not going to wait around. He’s seen Lehtonen around, of course, since they used to be in the same division. They’re not friends.

They might be, Antti thinks idly, when they medal. 

Lehtonen shrugs. He puts his bag down first, on the bed closest to the door. “Or maybe he snores, and we’re the lucky ones.”

Kari Lehtonen doesn't snore. What he does do is smile too much to be entirely sane, but no one said he had to be. They're goalies.

Teemu Selänne is the one who starts telling everyone that they should have morning bike rides together, and he's their captain, so they only half-listen to them. Still, Antti wakes up three minutes before Tuukka knocks on the door and demands they go biking together, since they're the goalies. 

Mostly, it's an excuse to talk crap about the skaters, but that's what goalies do, when they're alone. 

It's not like Antti doesn't have friends on the national team; he plays ping pong with some of the guys during the breaks. God, he's fucking thirty years old, and Leo helpfully reminds him of this over lunch.

"Did you ever think we'd be here?" Leo asks over a plate of something truly strange that Antti doesn't even want to name, and a small part of Antti pictures the fucking gangly fucker that he used to be seven—eight?—years ago. 

"I told you—" he begins, but then the rookies start arm-wrestling next to them, and Ossi and Teemu are helpfully egging them on. 

Antti catches Kari looking at him, oddly, once. Only once. 

They're in their room. Kari sometimes has soft classical music on, and Antti doesn't ask, and Kari doesn't explain. It's a backdrop, and everyone knows music can change things a little, but not that much. Most music regimens are tailored to the person, to that specific frequency, and it seems as invasive as asking what a lower body injury really is. Maybe it's for luck. 

Antti grits his teeth and only says, "I didn't think this would be music you like," and almost forgets about it. 

Kari looks at him like he didn't expect Antti to hear it or that he hadn't expected Antti to sound so annoyed. There's basic courtesy to follow, and music is music, except no one who cares about frequencies touches classical music at all. Maybe Kari's one of the ones that don't care, but Antti doubts it; they're professional athletes. 

They're roommates, but they're not chattering each other's ears off. 

It's a chore, to be social. And Antti thinks about what people mean when they say they resonate well with others; they're meaningless words. Meaningless because there are frequencies that work well together, but it's as nebulous as line chemistry. 

No one wants to be social after the loss to Sweden, and Antti was only on the bench for that. He couldn't do a single thing. 

It's a feeling. Everyone knows: the higher the frequency, the lower the empathy. Antti feels, but not as much as others can, and he's very good at looking at angles for a play, very good at telling defensemen to get out of his damn crease, and he knows when he has a feeling. 

It's pretty awful, all considering. Antti has no idea why some people chase feelings like that; the loss makes his bones grind, makes him tense and worried, and it's ultimately futile because he can't make the last game move in his favor—his frequency is not that high, and Antti hasn't earned a single start this Olympics. 

He goes back to his room to stew in silence. Kari's already there, and the music is still there, and Antti's always been shit at identifying composers, but the sound of an orchestra is an undertow in their room, and Antti goes to sit on his bed on his half of the room. 

And it's such a fucking shitshow. Antti wonders if it's helped Kari at all, for all the playtime it's gotten. Antti's still callous when Kari turns the music off. "I thought you'd want to drown out—" something. Antti doesn't know what he was going to say there: _feelings_ , self-pity? Dread. Antti doesn't know if it's possible to raise it enough to numb emotions, ordinarily, but if it could raise enough, it's there. 

"I think I'm feeling enough," Kari says, and that shuts Antti up. Antti looks over at Kari, head bowed but back still straight, sitting cross-legged on his own bed. Kari continues, "You take things for fucking granted, otherwise." 

That's a more loaded statement than he was expecting. Antti doesn't know what possesses him, but he knows the exact feeling. He crosses the sacred line between their spaces, and he really, really looks at Kari. 

The silence is tense. Kari's looking back, and there's a calculating expression in his blue eyes, and Antti doesn't need a name for that look. 

Kari has half a smile, more of a grimace, and Antti knows a fake smile when he sees one, one with less heart behind it. There's an ache in Antti's chest.

They don't need to speak. Someone makes a move, but it's irrevelant; Antti's hand is tangled in Kari's hair, and Kari's clutching Antti's shirt tight enough that he thinks it might rip. 

Later, when they're sweaty and sprawled on the too-small bed; cramped for one hockey player, let alone two, Kari tells Antti, "I started listening again when I got traded, the way I hadn't done since I was a kid."

"It helps?" Because feelings seem too inconvenient, and it's easier not to get hung up on a goal against, easier to start the next game. Listening to _feel_ means Kari's lowering his frequency, just a little, and Antti thinks about the quote from an old health video—'I want to be happy. I want to be _able_ to feel happy.'

Kari laughs, and Antti doesn't know what makes that warm glow in his stomach. He kind of hopes it goes away soon. He knows he has to move since it's too cramped here; they have to be touching to stay like this, and he takes a deep breath and convinces himself it'd be just one moment. 

 

* * *

 

When he is old enough, Antti puts his name into the draft. 

Antti knows he isn't going to be drafted early. He doesn’t have the natural talent for it. Frequency can’t give him that. Hard work is his effort, and frequency can only do so much to help him improve, to get him seen by the right people at the right time. All he wants to be is a better goalie, maybe one of the better ones in a country full of them. 

Frequency can't give Antti talent or brains. It can't make him be as tall as people like their goalies. And it definitely can't make the rankings suddenly change in his favor-well, maybe it can do that one, but his frequency isn't that high. 

Antti expects if it happens, he'll go late. He has no awards, no prestigious organizations to vouch for him-even then, few goalies go in the first round. Rick DiPietro going first is a fluke, an accident of frequency—and even then, that he was American, whose numbers were already measured in the North American way. 

A goalie’s frequency sometimes matters more than others, Antti’s reminded, for when that bounce needs to come, but it’s always hard transitioning to an environment full of other frequencies. There is such a thing as equilibrium. 

Sometimes the numbers don’t make it over, either. Too many systems in play, too many different ways to measure it; conversion is almost useless, and no one is going to give the test to everyone in line for the draft again. Hockey is a team sport-one player does not determine the outcome. 

Antti doesn’t watch the draft. It’s not the end, he thinks. There’s always next year, and North American scouts are cautious about prospects overseas. It passes by. 

Antti receives no phone call. 

(Kari Lehtonen gets drafted second overall and becomes the highest drafted Finn ever. )

 

* * *

 

Antti comes back to Finland during the lockout. If it were up to him, he thinks, he’d still be playing hockey in the NHL. He will, when it comes back, he knows. There’s nothing that he can do but wait it out. 

He talks to Pasu and plays on his team. He doesn’t want to be a burden, but he’s the mentor that’s found him, and that means a lot, in the life of a lonely goalie. 

"Any team would be glad to have an NHL goalie," he chides. "What, am I going to say 'No, you can't play for my team, you are a terrible goalie?" 

And Antti doesn't want to be that nervous rookie who used to call Pasu up and complain to him, who used to worry about if he's good enough. He doesn't think he's stopped being that person, though he's better about it these days. Antti’s learned to want what he can have. He just wants to be a good goalie, better than most. He is that—so all he has to do is keep it up. He's heard of people wanting too much, and nature can only give someone that much. 

"All I want to do is be a good goalie," he says, and that's all, that's it, and "Maybe one of the better ones in Finland." 

“Don’t settle for that,” Pasu tells him. “You can do more.” Then he blows the whistle to make sure Antti goes to practice, so he's not lingering around talking. 

Antti nods. He's not used to hearing that. The best thing for him right now is to play, to keep his skills honed. The lockout will end, sometime.

He wants it to end soon, anyway. He doesn't think this will be a year without an NHL hockey season. 

 

* * *

 

When other people are considering giving up after being passed over their last year of draft eligibility, Antti just shakes his head and says, "I'll keep going." So he does. He makes it as far as you can go on your own; he plays professional hockey, but just barely professional. It's Metis; everyone else plays in the Liiga, but what can he do but hold on? 

He plays for the Pelicans. They're not the best team out there, and they could use him. 

He'll make it. Antti makes no other plans, though other people would have. 

It doesn’t pay enough, for one thing. The rink staff at his home rink see him playing, and they don’t want him to stop. One day, they ask him, “Can you drive a Zamboni?” 

Antti plays, and plays, and plays until there's scouts in the stands, plays to give them a reason to call someone. He isn’t going to be the first to ever leave the rink, and the Zamboni driving only gives him less incentive to leave. Sometimes, he forgets what non-rink air smells like. 

When Antti is twenty-two, someone in a suit gets a hold of him and asks, “Do you have an agent?” after pleasant courtesies and saying good things about his goaltending. Some of the other guys on the team do, but it’s only a few, and Antti’s never really put much thought into that. He’d cross that bridge when it came. 

It’s come. 

“No,” Antti says, looking at the man-Lehto, if he heard correctly-and he waits. He waits for what Lehto’s going to say; it’s going to be the next step.

Lehto hands him a card, asks him, “Acme World Sports. Bill Zito runs it; he could be your agent.” 

“Yeah, sure.” There isn’t much more to say, looking at stark words on the crisp card. Antti thinks, _I’m getting there._

(Kari Lehtonen is in Chicago for a year, and then he moves to Atlanta.)

 

* * *

 

When the Sharks trade his rights, Bill tells him, “You could hold out, explore your options, but we can start talks.” 

"Who to?" Antti asks, because Bill unhelpfully did not mention to whom. 

"Dallas." A pause. "You want me to go ahead and talk to them?" 

“Yeah, sure,” Antti says. He doesn’t know what difference it will make. They might be his best option anyway. They don’t have a bad team; the pieces are coming together. They traded for him; and while this isn't free agency like parading the team to him, or free agency complete with gift baskets and golf clubs, Antti knows when something falls into his lap. “What’s a couple of days difference? We were going to talk to them, anyway. Let me know how it goes.” 

“What do you want, term?” Bill asks. Bill's going after money, of course, that's what Antti pays him for. “They might only want you for a year or two.” 

“See if you can push them for three,” is his only reply. Antti doesn’t think he holds grudges, but there is this sudden want in him, this flare of determination. The last time he sat on the bench with Kari Lehtonen, they were playing Sweden at Sochi. He wants to be better. He wants the starting job. Maybe, he thinks, this is chance to prove that he did deserve time in Sochi. 

The other part of Sochi—the off-ice part, well, that happened. Antti's sure they can forget about that. Antti hasn't felt that way since, and he wonders if this is just nature being kind. Feelings are strange, elusive, and while Antti knows they're supposed to be a good thing, he doesn't want to be able to be moved to tears at a single loss. 

Right before free agency starts, Antti signs a contract with the Dallas Stars. Three years, a raise, and a modified no-trade clause.

He's ready to play.

The Stars welcome-wagon includes Jason Demers because _of course it does_. Antti feigns indifference, but it's pretty difficult to ignore an excited Jason Demers because he's loud. And tactile. 

He goes in for the hug before Antti can really avoid it. "Hey, Nemo!" Demers says. "Glad to see you again, man." It's a terse three seconds before he can get away. 

Behind Demers are the Benns, and the one with the beard sticks out his hand to shake. "I'm Jordie, nice to meet you, man." 

Antti can handle the pleasantries. Jamie Benn asks, after a slightly more awkward introduction, "So we can call you Nemo?"

"Sure," Antti says, like it was actually a choice for him to say no. 

"Some of the guys are here, but you'll see all of them at camp," Demers promises. "Oh, man, I guess Patrik's going to have to give up that nickname." 

Jamie Benn gets on a little motorized cart, and Antti raises his eyebrows. "Are you eighty?" he asks.

"Ask his hips, and he might be," Jordie says, and he leans in to fuck with his brother's hair. "You need me to push you, Chubbs?" 

"Yeah, we're going to show you around," Demers promises. 

"No, Daddy," Antti says, "I thought you were going to leave me in the woods to fend for myself." 

They run him through the training room and the dressing room, bring him around to meet a few other people. Hockey season won't be here for a few weeks yet, but everyone is almost ready today. Demers and the Benns abandon him sometime after they find Seguin. Antti meets some of the trainers, some of the other guys, and shakes hands with Lindy Ruff, who tells him, "I think Jeff is out on the ice, so you should drop by." 

Jeff's watching Kari skate out on the ice, so as soon as they get introduced, so does Antti. 

Antti knows a feeling when he feels one. 

If Antti has a chance of beating Kari for the starting spot, he realizes, they have to be equals first, and it's weird to have to put him on that footing; either of them can earn the spot, and Antti knows he can lose it just as easily. Even so, Antti's not sure he wants to beat him. All he knows is that he wants to win. Antti knows what it is to be a team player; he plays a team sport, he doesn't show off, he settles down and plays his role. 

That's what he's going to do. 

Kari skates to the bench, lifts up his helmet and says, "Hey, you made it." He even smiles, and Antti wonders if this is one of those things that he's learned to do or if it's one of those things that he does more. 

Antti smiles back, and it's at least half-genuine. 

 

* * *

 

By twenty-five, he is in the NHL. They send him down, but it only makes him want to be back, very soon.

(Kari's off the rails. He backstops a failing team, and he doesn't know where to turn but to food, to distractions.)

 

* * *

 

Antti thought they'd be friends after the Olympics, and they are, in a fashion. He's at the rink, and he passes by the reporters the place seems to have grown, but not before hearing Goligoski say, "They're probably best friends," in front of a New York reporter—and Antti's not quick enough not to be subsequently pulled aside for a quote. 

"Well," the reporter says, and she even still has a microphone instead of just using a smartphone. "Tell me how you feel about the goalie tandem." 

Antti's general about it. They work good together; they're pushing each other. The things people want to hear. He also says, "He's a good guy." 

She wants to talk about the damn Olympics, and he doesn't, so Antti offers, "Besides Sochi. We met in Cabo, once." He shrugs. "By chance, really." 

And that's something new; he knows the look in her eye, and it's the sight of a want fulfilled. Reporters want new things to say. 

Antti understands want more than he understands feelings. He wants the start, want to show off in a big way, and most of all he wants the win. He won the first start, and afterwards, he got the praise, the hugs and the taps and the "good jobs" that he doesn't _need_ but validate him. And Kari's there, at the end. 

He smiles. It's toothy and a little horsey, but it's sincere, and it reminds Antti a little of Sochi. And Antti thinks he can almost understand why people chase feelings. 

It's a feeling, and Antti pretends to have more of those than he does have. 

He can't chase it, but he knows it's the same low feeling he gets when Kari's Finnish stops being so careful as his English, and he stops worrying about what comes out of his mouth, when he starts talking about cutting down angles and how he can't quite get how to use a reverse VH at the right moment, always, or about gap control—and he does it more quickly and more decisively than he ever did during their before game talks with Reeser. 

It's a feeling that Antti can nestle under his ribs and forget about, and sometimes he forgets about it. 

It's more want when Antti loses big in Colorado, during the second game of the season; and the loss is like but unlike the grinding, the aches at Sochi. Antti shouldn't, but he knocks on Kari's room door anyway, and to Antti's frequency's merit, Kari was already awake. 

He's at the door, holding a questioning look, one that asks Antti, "why?" 

"Feelings are shit," Antti says, and he makes no effort to explain. It's not like he cares about the loss more than any others. Antti grumbles, "I don't know why you want them." 

And there, that's the real question: it pits them against each other better than the media ever can. 

Kari lets him in anyway, and he even has beer, the good kind. "You get used to them," he says, after a mock toast. Antti almost believes him. 

"I don't see how," he says. There's the soft hum of strings in the background, and Kari has his music, here, too. Maybe Antti's having an adverse reaction to the music, to whatever Kari thinks he's doing with it; no one's allergic to notes, but it could be something like that, but he looks at Kari again, and there's a little pang that's almost familiar. 

Kari was there then, at Sochi, and he's here now. It's easy to lean over and remember the ache that wasn't there the morning after. 

 

* * *

 

By twenty-six, Antti wins the Cup.

(Kari has back surgery and doesn't play.)

 

* * *

 

Right before the playoffs, they test the whole team. 

It’s the first time that Antti has had to take the test in twenty years, and more confusingly, it’s a different test. Before, they would always take his number and convert it, and that was good enough. Even a goalie with the lowest frequency can get hot and bat away pucks. The position is a little magical that way.

The NHL keeps changing its rules about frequency. It’s a sport, and they have to control for fairness like everything else. They want to make goalie pants smaller, put cameras on the blue line, and harness frequency. The only reason, Antti thinks, that they don’t test frequency more often is it’s a team sport. On a team, there’s too many variables involved even before the arena music to accurately tell what’s going to happen. 

Organ music is traditional, not least because it helps nullify frequency. 

Antti doesn't know if the move to test again is to quantify something for the stats people; that's not his job to wonder. He can still resent them when everyone crams into a testing center. 

“I hate these things,” Eakin says, to his left, fiddling with his blindfold in his hands. “Can’t we wear sleepmasks or something?” 

“It’s traditional,” Fiddler argues. Then, in fairness, adds, “And do you have sleepmasks for everyone?” 

They get split up, of course. 

Antti looks around at the stragglers, at Faksa who needs Hemsky to help him with his, at the Swedes ribbing each other over them.The half of the team that has to take them in English are in the other group, and all the rest of them are stuck here. 

“I never saw the point of a blindfold,” Klingberg says, “How can anyone cheat?”

“There’s always cheaters,” Roussel answers, philosophically. “Always quitters, too.” 

At least they didn’t bring in desks for school children, Antti thinks. Instead they sprawl, all messy elbows and poor posture, at tables. He nudges Kari, on his right. “When’s the last time you had yours taken?” 

“At school,” Kari marvels. He pauses for a minute before correcting himself. “Wait, no, I remember taking one after the draft. I had to wait until they could find a copy in Finnish. It was stranger; I think the American test is weird, but they test the same thing in the end.” 

“It’s been a long time then, old man.” 

“You’re older,” Kari complains. He still has traces of baby fat on his face, too, a little strange for a man just as old as Antti is. “Do you even remember how to tie a blindfold?” 

Antti does. 

There's a lull of time between then in playoffs. Vaguely, Antti's aware that the NHL is doing a showcase of frequency versus career, but that doesn't matter. They get a break before the hard part comes. 

When Kari's numbers come back, so do Antti's. 

They're exactly the same. Above average, to a decimal point that Antti thinks is trivial.

It plays into the narrative, somehow. Antti’s not sure what it is; he and Kari don’t hate each other. They already have the same number of wins, and they have almost the same overall stats. The staff asks questions about that, but there’s nothing to do but say it was an oddity. Either way, the paper was going to make a statement on their frequencies, to try to figure out which one of them was better to start the series with the Wild. 

It’s not a controversy. They switch off as easily as Antti puts on his left skate by now.

Julie Dobbs asks him later that day, “Do you think having the same frequency helps you two-you and Kari Lehtonen?” 

“I think,” Antti starts. He’s never thought about it that way, but it makes sense. Frequencies are an intrinsic part of who a person is. If they’re in tune, it works out. “I think it might be part of the reason why we get along. Other than the tires, we’ve been good.” 

Julie stifles some laughter. “I see there’s still some rivalry, then.”

Antti shrugs. “It’s a business.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a saying that higher frequencies don’t appreciate the lives they lead. Maybe Antti doesn’t. He has the glory, now, has the little mark in history that he’s the first Finnish goaltender to ever win the Cup. 

Now, it’s time to think practically. He files for arbitration. 

The Hawks don’t need him anymore, and, Antti thinks, he doesn’t need them. He wanted a way to get into the NHL, and they were it. He wonders where he’ll be next season. 

Somewhere warm, he thinks. Probably not in the division. A little niggling bit of him remembers Jarmo Myllys in a Sharks uniform. Well, that’s the closest thing to a preference he has, really, to wear the uniform that Myllys wore. 

(Kari gets traded to Dallas, and maybe, maybe that's a new beginning.)

 

* * *

 

It's really not just a business, though. 

 

This is the best season the Dallas Stars have had in a long, long time, and Antti is a part of that. They are all part of that. 

 

Kari's a big part of that. Kari, who plays music at his house and his car, the kind that is supposed to fix frequency, or something like that. A high frequency is one that need to be constantly nourished—any change at all is temporary. 

Changes aren't permanent, except Antti does different things, now. He and Kari go to dinner together, and sometimes Antti takes the path of least resistance and lets Kari drive his stupid new car project, something classic he wants to drive or maybe pulled out of a junkyard. 

"It has character," Kari insists, like it would make Antti see something else besides a car and only a car. 

Kari might even have a point, Antti realizes, but he's not going to tell him that. 

 

Antti is not the type to stop by the side of the road to help someone. He isn't. If their lights are on, and they seem to have a phone, they will be fine. The thing that makes Antti stop on the way to the airport is that no one else is driving this early—and he recognizes that stupid vintage car. 

He pulls over and turns on his emergency lights. Antti sits in the car for a moment before he gets out. Kari's already squatting down by his shamefully sad tire, mostly gone, inspecting the damage. Kari looks sheepish, but pretty non-plussed when Antti approaches. 

"Hey," Kari begins. "I didn't think anyone would stop." 

"Lucky for you, then," Antti replies. He snorts, though. "What the fuck happened, Kärppä?" 

"I'm going to blame the weather," Kari mutters. "Tire pressure. Help me get the car up." 

Kari's not asking, but Antti didn't stop not to help. Antti pulls down the cap on his head and readies himself to hand Kari tools. Kari's a car guy, and Antti thinks he's most in his element when someone's watching him. 

It's a good twenty minutes before they're ready to leave. Kari wipes the sweat off his brow, and it's just a flat tire, everything will turn out okay. There's has a full-sized spare tire in the trunk, so all he needed was a hand to get on the way.

Antti tests out the tire, and it's good. He gives Kari the thumbs-up, and he gets a nod and grin in return. The car roars louder than anything that's not modified can ever be, and Antti rolls his eyes a little, but he waits until Kari's on his way, and there's only a few miles yet to get to Love Field. 

Antti still tries to beat him there, though. These are the moments, Antti realizes, that never happen to him—or at least, not before he came down here. Antti doesn't think he's been around Kari and his music scheme that much, but maybe he has. 

Antti's unsettled. 

They eat lunch together, on road trips, usually at the same table as Roussel and Janmark, sometimes joined by Oleksiak, the perpetual scratch. At some point, it's part of his road routine, and he doesn't know when he started spending this much time around Kari, but it's too late to stop now. 

 

* * *

 

It’s try-out season, so that means going from team to team, trying to see if there’s a place Antti can play. He's going to play for the local team, unless someone else beats him out, but he doesn't think so. 

Practice comes, and Antti knows most of the guys here; they're people he's played with before, and there are only a few new faces. There are always lots of forwards, and now, there are even other goalies. 

One of them's even supposed to be _really good_. They skate together, but Antti keeps to himself. The scrimmage comes, and they switch out, for that.

The first half, Antti watches. He's supposed to follow that up. Whoever's in the net, he's good, and before, Antti didn't know why anyone would call anyone a hot-shot coming up, but he makes it look easy, and he lets in one. One goal, half a game. 

Antti gets his time in the net, and he stops most of the shots. They teams have cycled in some heavier shooters, and Antti's not used to more of those, but he manages. He lets in four, but that's okay. It's not perfect; it's okay. Their side of the scrimmage wins, but it's just a tryout. 

After the game, when there are couple dozen boys all in various states of tired and hungry, Antti sits on the bench. Some of the skaters reach out for a bump, which Antti returns, maybe a little too hard with his blocker. It’s almost time to take all the goalie gear off; he can almost, but not quite manage it completely by himself. 

Antti thinks, we'll meet again. And he'll be better.

Everyone’s parents are talking to the coaches or waiting to talk to the coaches or helping the boys who can’t quite take off their own skates yet. For a moment, he doubts he's just going to make it. There might be a second try-out. He wants to play, and these are his friends, the kids who have moved up from the other team with him. 

His parents are here, and he doesn't say anything but, "It was good, I think," and he gets a pat on the head. 

Antti makes the team anyway. 

(Kari Lehtonen chooses to play somewhere else because it's supposed to be better for him. Because the scouts tell him it's better, and it's for Jokerit; there is a place for him to go, if he's lucky, if he's good, and he is both.) 

 

* * *

 

Morning practice is different, somehow. Antti can tell, between the ding of punks off the crossbar and the sluice of skate on ice, that something’s different. He looks to Kari, who flashes that smile that makes him look like an idiot. 

Practice is different. They're both energized, both ready. Only one of them can really start the series, start off the games, but they come off the ice together, when it's done, breaking away from the rest of the traditions forged this year. 

(They still don’t have a name for what this is, and Antti still has a feeling, only one he’s sure of. Kari is warm beside him, all sprawling limbs, and the smirk on his face is because they’ve made summer plans.)

 

* * *

 

It's Kari's start, but they all knew that, even before Lindy will read out the starters to the team; Antti thinks they knew it before he tells them in person, so that they can get whatever game day rituals they have done. 

Antti can't change that. He doesn't want to. 

They have the playoffs.

Antti wants to win, and he wants to win together, with this team, with Kari. As he looks out onto the ice, where Kari's just stretching, going through the poses that Antti never bothers with, he thinks with a conviction that few would question: _All he has to do is try hard enough, and it will happen._


End file.
